


In Every Game of Chess

by Face_of_Poe



Series: The Element of Surprise [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Captivity, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Sexual Bondage, Rank Disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: An away mission is ambushed.Fortunately for the away team, Commander Hamilton has a lot of experience escaping knots.Especially those tied by Captain Washington.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: The Element of Surprise [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1190386
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	In Every Game of Chess

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes, little shit special forces Hamilton wants to come back out to play.

“Well,” Schuyler sighs, “this is embarrassing.”

Washington, kneeling in the middle between Schuyler and Hamilton, is rather forced to agree. Hamilton offers no input on the matter, head tilted slightly to try and catch the low muttered words being exchanged by their captors. Whatever language they’re speaking amongst themselves, it’s entirely unknown to Washington.

But, as Hamilton forever delights in pointing out – he’s good with tongues.

(And he is.)

“Angelica,” Hamilton murmurs, eyes narrowed and still staring at the arguing aliens about five meters in front of them, “is your father mediating a dispute in the Vel-ar system at the moment?”

“Um,” she glances over past Washington. “Yeah.”

He nods. “Okay. Good news and bad news.”

“The _good_ ,” Washington prompts when Hamilton fails to elaborate.

“Well, they need Angelica alive if they’ve any hope of leverage over the admiral.”

Schuyler positively groans. “The bad?” Washington urges as their captors settle their dispute and turn to head towards them.

Hamilton shrugs. “You and I are less essential to that objective?”

But once upon them, one of the aliens simply drops a couple coils of thin rope in front of Hamilton. “You,” he jabs with a pilfered phaser. “You bind them.”

Hamilton lets out a noisy sigh, theatric in its irritation. Like he’s just been asked to do the most tedious chore the barracks leader could come up with for no other reason than sheer punishment. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, I’ve always been shit with knots.”

The strike is telegraphed so effectively, it’s a wonder to Washington that Hamilton doesn’t flinch back from it. He gets a backhand to the face and goes spinning down into the dirt. Schuyler bites back a gasp; Washington snatches up one of the ropes and puts a knee in Hamilton’s back to prevent him from rising. “I’ll do it,” he holds out a hand towards the aliens before they get any ideas about shooting Hamilton while he’s down. “I’ll do it.”

“Sir,” Hamilton bites as Washington pulls his arms around behind his back, “I usually expect dinner first.”

He just shakes his head at the smirking grin Hamilton shoots back at him, and focuses on twining the rope around his wrists just so. Precise, practiced, feeling the way Hamilton’s muscles tense, watching the nigh-invisible twists of the angles of his wrists as Washington ties the knots. Creating invisible slack. The way he’s done dozens of times before, and had done to him the dozens of times Hamilton’s failed at teaching him the trick.

Child’s play for Hamilton to slip out of, when the time is right.

He ties Schuyler’s arms in the same fashion, but she doesn’t have those tricks, that knowledge, the skills Hamilton picked up in spec ops or elsewhere along the mysterious path of his life.

By the time he’s finished there, one of them has hauled Hamilton back upright onto his knees. None-too-gently, by the grimace on his face and the way he rolls his shoulders. There’s blood trickling down his chin from a split lip, and Washington cringes sympathetically as he instinctively prods at it with his tongue.

Rather than a third length of rope, Washington’s arms are clasped in front of him with a heavy pair of cuffs. “Ah,” Hamilton tsks at the hostile. “Never leave for a scenic hike in the,” he glances around, “petrified forests of Cor’rus without packing enough handcuffs for any spontaneous kidnapping exercises.”

Another hit, this one higher and worrying close to Hamilton’s temple. A soft _oof_ escapes him, but he keeps his balance. His eyes take a moment to refocus though even as Washington tries to catch them, to broadcast his silent frantic pleas of _What?_ And _Why?_

Schuyler is less subtle. “Are you _trying_ to get us killed?” she hisses.

They need her, though. That’s what Hamilton said.

And however apprehensive he finds himself at this particular moment – Washington has learned to trust the boy unconditionally.

x---x

By the time they reach their captors’ makeshift base in the catacombs forged an odd-millennium ago by acid rivers, Hamilton has pissed them off so much that they’re openly mulling just killing him.

“We need her,” one of the aliens points roughly at Schuyler, addressing the apparent leader of this little extortion operation. “And he,” he points at Washington, “he is captain. They will negotiate for captain. But _this_ one,” he kicks the back of Hamilton’s leg and sends him falling awkwardly to his knees, “he is no one.”

“That wounds me, Fgalin, honestly,” Hamilton laments.

The leader cracks a thin smile over sharp teeth and traces a clawed hand down Hamilton’s face. “Maybe we kill him.” He grips him by the chin, claws puncturing the soft skin of his cheeks, making Hamilton hiss. “Maybe we keep him.” He lets go, and little rivulets of blood start dribbling down Hamilton’s face. “Negotiations first,” he instructs. “Put him in the hold.”

Schuyler stares at him, but there’s nothing Washington can say by way of argument or reassurance. Hamilton gives him a meaningful look as he’s dragged up and around, a look that tells him this is the plan. As he’s dragged away, Hamilton wriggles the fingers of both hands behind his back. Fighting against the bonds, by all appearances, but the motion is too quick and too pointed, and Hamilton knows him too well.

Hamilton has a plan.

Washington just hopes he isn’t missing some part in it _he_ is meant to play.

He starts a mental countdown for ten minutes.

x---x

In the ten minutes that follow, Washington contemplates three things.

First – that a signal cannot be bounced directly from the _Revolution_ to these caverns, and the comm must be bounced through a relay point elsewhere on the planet.

Second – that, consequently, and considering the ambush, someone within the Cor’rus government must be quietly assisting the Velun separatists.

Third – that upon losing contact, Lafayette will have beamed down a rescue party to their last known location.

Lafayette looks wholly unimpressed when the leader, Charakin, succeeds in making contact at approximately minute seven of Washington’s count. “You _must_ know,” he drawls, “that Starfleet doesn’t negotiate _anything_ with a phaser to the head.”

Lafayette’s a good actor, to be sure, but Washington can’t help but find himself mildly indignant at his dismissiveness of the situation.

Charakin goes off on a long rant about the situation in the Vel-ar system, about Starfleet’s culpability, about Admiral Schuyler. Lafayette listens, looking bored, attention split between the brewing hostage crisis on his viewscreen and a datapad in his hand.

“If you’re quite done,” Lafayette says at the end of the tangent. Charakin makes a low hiss somewhere in the back of his throat and clawed fingers twitch towards the phaser on his belt. “Captain, Commander? I might suggest you duck?”

“Wha - ?”

There’s an explosion somewhere in the direction of the mouth of the cave, the way they’d come in. Washington knocks Schuyler with his shoulder and drops to the ground by her side when she lands awkwardly with a soft _oomph_. Charakin aims his pilfered phaser and his two guards, ancient-looking disruptors, at the doorway –

-just in time for the door at the rear of the chamber to slide up instead with a soft hiss. Hamilton steps through, criminally nonchalant considering the blood drenching his uniform, the two remaining stolen phasers in either hand, and has the three hostiles down before they can so much as turn.

x---x

“Captain,” Schuyler murmurs fifteen minutes later, once they’ve been freed of their bonds and have regained proper feeling in their hands, once the base has been swept and the hostiles secured, once Hamilton has finally, irritably, acquiesced to Laurens looking him over (“It’s not _my_ blood!”) and is sitting petulantly in a corner while the doctor’s tricorder scans over him. “Why can I not get the wholly disturbing thought out of my mind that that’s not the _first_ time Hamilton’s slipped a knot you’ve tied?”

He glances instinctively over at Hamilton, face upturned while Laurens runs a dermal regenerator over the claw punctures. He catches Washington’s eye, lets one corner of his mouth tug up in a half-smirk, glances at Schuyler’s discerning stare, and returns his attention to the doctor.

“On second thought,” Schuyler says flatly, “I don’t want to know.”

x---x

Washington is in his ready-room a couple hours later, finishing his report on the ambush, their brief captivity, the connection traced back through a handsomely bribed Corusian official, and the rescue effort, when Lafayette pings him. “Commander Hamilton would like to go over his report with you, sir.”

“Send him in.” It’s a matter of seconds before the door is sliding open and Hamilton steps through. He looks none the worse for wear, in a clean downtime uniform, his wounds well-treated by Laurens, and no small amount of mischief dancing in his eyes. But then his tongue darts out to prod at the scab on his lip. “The doctor miss a spot?” Washington asks, pressing a button on his console to lock the door.

Hamilton grins. “He dotes.” He reaches up and touches it gingerly with his finger. “I kind of like it. War-wound souvenir. Proof of my gallantry.”

“Angelica was convinced they were going to kill you the second you disappeared from sight,” Washington points out sternly. And then more reluctantly adds, “She’s suspicious. But she won’t ask.”

“Can’t report what she doesn’t know.”

“Indeed.” Washington circles the desk and comes around to twine his fingers through Hamilton’s dark hair. He tips his head back and stares at Hamilton’s face, his teasing grin, the way he can’t stop himself from playing with his scabbed lip. “You were brilliant.”

“I’m dangerous.”

“I like that.”

For a moment, he worries it’s the wrong thing to say. But Hamilton knows him well enough, he thinks, to understand it’s the cunning, the _competence_ that Washington means. Not the violence. A light smile touches his lips, and Washington wants to plunder his mouth until that scab breaks open again. “Yeah?” He nods. “Maybe I should tie _you_ up sometime.”

“Hm,” Washington considers him. “Maybe later.”

Hamilton grins – and slips out of his grasp without warning. “I’ll hold you to that, sir.”

He’s gone before Washington can get in so much as a word of protest.

x---x

He wakes that night to a hot mouth pressing against his own; nimble hands looping soft braided cords around his wrists. Once it’s evident he’s awake, Hamilton climbs astride him and deepens the kiss to something positively filthy, before yanking Washington’s arms up over his head and looping the end of the cord around one of the bedposts.

It’s a tease of a restraint. He could tug his arms up and free the loop from the post with minimal effort, even if his hands would still be well-bound together. But he lies there and lets himself be maneuvered, and watches as Hamilton sits back and admires his handiwork before climbing off and making quick work of his clothing.

Washington catches a shadow across Hamilton’s ribs on one side, and another under the opposite shoulder blade. “Lights,” he calls softly. “Ten percent.”

A faint glow illuminates the room, allowing him to better study the purpling bruises marring Hamilton’s torso. Hamilton looks at him, realizes what’s caught his attention, and shrugs a shoulder, unconcerned. “I’ve had worse.”

“You really should let the doctor look you over,” Washington reprimands as seriously as he can manage in this position, arms bound above his head and hardening cock slowly tenting the front of his sleep pants underneath the blankets.

To his credit, Hamilton looks like he’s actually considering it – before he flashes an ornery grin, finishes shucking off his underclothes, and clambers back on top of his captain. “You really want me to go take my clothes off for someone _else_?” he leans down and asks hot against Washington’s ear. “ _Now_?”

To emphasize his point, he grinds his hips down, hard. Washington bites back the groan. “You’re incorrigible.”

He’s beautiful, too. All wiry strength and nimble muscle, and oh-so clever. Teasing and relaxed and utterly confident in a way that does things to his pathetically smitten commander.

The look in Hamilton’s eyes softens to something sweeter, like he can read the direction of Washington’s thoughts, before he leans down to place a gentle kiss against his lips. His hands pull the blanket back, and deft fingers begin unbuttoning the front of his sleep shirt, a hot mouth and wet tongue following across every inch of exposed flesh. Hamilton shuffles awkwardly so he can yank the blankets the rest of the way down and off Washington’s body, tosses them clean off the bed, and Washington lifts his hips best he’s able so Hamilton can shove his pants down over his thighs, too.

This isn’t what they do; it’s torturous, as Hamilton licks teasing little stripes up and down his length, not to be able to reach for him, to cup his face and guide him, to brush sweaty hair off his forehead. To yield all control to another, to this boy who choses to let himself be taken and taken apart, who gives himself utterly to Washington’s touch, his mouth, his cock.

“Relax,” Hamilton breathes against him, eyes dancing with untold mischief, before swallowing him down far as he can manage.

Washington jerks so hard he can feel the rope chafe his wrists. Hamilton _laughs_ , mouth stretched obscenely around his cock, and Washington jerks his hips and gags him on it.

“Rude,” Hamilton wipes at his mouth as he pulls off. There’s still laughter in his eyes though, and he slides back up Washington’s body so he can rut against him, slide his own hot length against Washington’s, cheeks flushed. He nips across his chest, up his neck, and murmurs against his ear, “You have to learn to _surrender_ , sir.”

“It’s not in my nature, Commander.”

Hamilton blinks at him, considers him a moment… and then sits up, weight perched on Washington’s thighs, and reaches up and tugs at the rope. “No,” he smiles ruefully as Washington works his wrists and then his shoulders, “I suppose it’s not.”

He starts to move, like he’s going to rise up off the bed – but Washington reaches out, grips him firmly by the hips and holds him there. Fingers digging in to soft flesh, he wonders if he’ll add more bruises to the canvas of his skin by the time he’s done with him.

A deep, primal part of him hopes so, anyway.

He lets go with one hand and awkwardly shuffles into a more upright position. Then he reaches blindly into the drawer beside his bed, and wastes no time slicking up his cock and dragging the warm, willing body in his lap straight down onto it.

Hamilton lets out a low, obscene groan as he’s slowly and firmly filled. The lubricant, Washington drops uncaring to the floor so he can get both hands under Hamilton’s ass and drag him up and back down, over and over.

He gives Hamilton no time to get his bearings, and all he can do is clutch helplessly at Washington’s biceps as little shocked grunts of pleasure are forced out of him. His cock bounces against Washington’s stomach every time he buries his cock back to the root, flushed and leaking and neglected.

“Touch yourself,” he orders.

“Let me ride you,” Hamilton counters in short gasps.

So Washington forces his neediness down, relaxes back once more. Lets go and lets Hamilton get his feet under him, sits back and watches through heavy-lidded eyes as the boy fists his cock and finds a rhythm on Washington’s, up and down, finding that sweet spot, dragging the head of Washington’s cock over it again and again and again while he shakes apart.

When he comes, it’s with a desperate cry. Shaking and spilling over Washington’s stomach, sweat beading on his forehead, lip pulled between his teeth.

It’s bleeding again, Washington notes with a twisted sort of satisfaction.

Hamilton collapses against him, trembling in Washington’s arms and a hard cock still buried in his ass. Washington is kind enough to give him a minute to catch his breath before coaxing his face up, pressing a demanding kiss to his lips, tasting the sharp tang of blood when he does.

And then he tips Hamilton’s head to the side and murmurs against his ear, “My turn.”

He lifts the shaking body up off him before Hamilton can quite react, shoves him off and over onto his belly. Washington disentangles his legs from his pants and maneuvers around and atop his boy, lying prone and panting into the sheets.

He gives no quarter. Tugs him up by narrow hips while Hamilton whines and futilely tries to squirm away, and buries himself to the hilt. The sound it punches out of him is the most beautifully indecent thing and Washington’s grip tightens while he fights to master himself.

Eventually, Hamilton ceases struggling. Washington smooths a hand across his back before pressing his shoulders down into the mattress. Hamilton twists his face to one side and can’t help the exhausted smirk as Washington pulls his arms back and pins his wrists at the small of his back with one hand.

He fucks him slower, after that, a more measured pace that lets Hamilton feel every inch of him pressing inexorably forward, letting Washington feel the slow parting of hot flesh, the tight squeeze around his cock. Muscles trembling, overwhelmed and oversensitive after his orgasm, Hamilton can do nothing but take it and be taken and taken apart. 

Nothing but surrender.


End file.
